Perspective
by Talksick
Summary: We all know how Batman, the Joker, Gordon and Dent see Gotham city, but there's alot more to Gotham than just those handful of guys. OC's, cursing, drinking, violence warnings


"Oh, _shit_! Ax!"

Ax jumped up. "What?"

"Get me something hard, _NOW_!"

Packrat always had piles of shit stuffed into his knapsack- hence his name. Underneath a few bottles of multivitamins, the plastic house for his pet rat Master Splinter and his beercap collection, was a hard plastic magnifying glass kids back in the day used to strap to GameBoys (non-color) to make it easier to watch their three-pixel pokemon bounce.

He rounded the corner where Stereo was pressing Simon bodily against the wall. Simon's mouth was open, gums bare, screaming. He clawed blindly, pushing away invisible enemies. Stereo was the only perceived threat he could hurt, the only one with a body and nerve endings. Fortunately, Stereo was almost twice his size- he barely felt Simons' bony, junkie fists poking his stomach and sides. Simons' girlfriend sat next to the fight on the sidewalk, shocked and numb.

Ax folded the magnifying glass and slotted it between Simons' teeth. "Bite down. We wanna keep most of you intact,"

"Chemist and Pack, help me hold him. Nails, call an ambulance," Stereo ordered. Chemist and Packrat each grabbed a shoulder and helped Stereo hold Simon still. He kicked. His boots had spikes. Packrat crumpled when one connected with his knee, recovering as fast as he could and locking the foot against the wall. Nails, the only one with a cellphone, flipped his open and dialed 911.

"I'm giving them the address on the far corner," Nails said. When the ambulance came, they would hide. Hospitals asked too many questions like, things like; _who paid for the drugs? Do you know the name of the supplier? Will you submit to a full body-cavity search? And I'll need your full name and address, please_.

The girl huddled on the street twitched into reality. "Shouldn't we, like, give him some water?"

"Do you want him to drown?" Stereo asked her viciously. She choked back a sob.

"I want to go with him,"

"Have fun," Chemist said, fighting to keep Simons' left hand over his head. "Tell us what hospital he's at so we can help spring him,"

"Can't we help him ourselves?"

"All we can do right now is wait, and stop him from hurting himself," Stereo told her. Simon lolled in his grip. "Who was he buying from?"

The girl sobbed a little. "Fat Eddie,"

"Somebody needs to tell Eddie his shit's spiked before he sells more,"

"Fuck Eddie- he's a freak. Didn't he almost make Ax give him a blowjob for a nickelbag last month?"

"We don't talk about these things," Ax snapped, pulling a roll of electrical tape out of Packrats' bag.

"You could have asked," Packrat snapped.

"Mother may I?" Ax sneered. He peeled off a long line and strapped the magnifying glass to the inside of Simons' mouth. He'd stopped screaming, but from the blood it looked like he was biting a little too hard.

"T-minus five minutes and counting," Nails called from outside the alley. "I hear sirens,"

"You gonna stay with him?" Stereo asked the girl on the floor. She nodded weakly. "You hold him until the ambulance gets there. We'll help until we see the lights, but then you're on your own. Don't let him get away, and talk slowly and calmly to him. Don't let him see you're afraid. Understand?"

She nodded again.

"Nails 'n Ax, think you can carry everything?"

Nails was already carrying Stereo's and Chemist's bags. Ax's bag lived permanently behind the black couch in Nails' parents' apartment. Simon's and Packrats' bags were all that was left.

"We're gonna have to come back for the beer," Ax said, shrugging on all the assorted straps and clasps that made up Packrats' bag.

"And by 'we', you mean 'you'," Packrat snickered. "Ya drunk,"

"So are we ready?" Stereo snapped.

"Never for this shit," Chemist grumbled.

"Great. Let's go,"

--

Street kids had their own take on the news.

Stereo had been swooped down on by Batman twice for mugging clubkids ("I was _hungry_. Jesus, I wasn't even copping dope,"), Nails had been a Jokerette for a grand total of two hours (he was clinically psychotic- the Joker liked that), and Simon was just one of hundreds of kids just like him who had been dealt baggies of narcotics cut with Fear Toxin.

Most kids, if you asked them, would tell you the same things: Scarecrow is an asshole. Batman is an idiot. The Joker is a legend.

Along the beltway between Uptown and the Narrows, the shabby-chic area where the Wayne-acolytes came to slum it, and the poor came to act rich, literal street urchins turned the club-goers into livestock, picking pockets, begging, or just pushing someone into an alley and beating them until they gave up wallets.

They separated themselves by style, first- sneakerheads, emos, Goths, punks, hippies, trannies, whatever, recognized each other by style and sympathized instantly. Then there were the tribes, which were just a bunch of people who all shared a streetcorner day after day and glued together into something like camaderie. They clung together until somebody died, or slipped away, or grew up or something. It usually took less than a day to get cemented into a tribe. If you couldn't stick with your friends, at least stick with somebody who was the same brand of freak as you.

Strength in numbers. Don't get caught alone.

The tribes didn't normally fight each other- they fought outsiders. Stuck-up new kids on the block were the first ones to get picked off, followed quickly by clubkids.

Clubkids, decked out in the latest fashions with drugs twice as expensive and half as pure as anything the junkies on the street were spanging up for, were only confident in packs. Alone, they just looked like wounded prey. Scared, clutching their bags, usually with a piece of paper telling them the address of some hot new club. These kids, this little demi-god wannabes in human flesh, the ones who only deemed the streetkids worthy of their insults when they were with their friends, suddenly realized just how out of place they were when they wandered past a tribe, alone.

They weren't always hurt. Only the stubborn ones. If they were _really_ scared, they handed over their wallets as soon as you held out your hand.

It didn't matter if they called the cops or not. Firstly, the cops didn't care unless over a thousand dollars was stolen. Secondly, by the time they reached a precinct, you and their money were uptown with some friends, buying whatever it was that you couldn't before.

There was a whole new subculture roaming the Beltway. Carnival Freaks, with the clown make-up, all decked out in purple and green and flicking crack lighters and knives.

Stereo liked to say they were just a weird combination of Mod and Droog mixed with some Insane Clown Posse.

Ax had always had an affinity for Droogs. Straight Carnival Freak style was a little boring and stupid, but most people mixed it up with whatever else they'd been wearing before that. There were Carnival Emos, Carnival Goths, Carnival Punks, even Carnival Hippies.

Carnival Freaks liked bright colours and neon. They liked broken things, like clocks and children's toy. And weird clinical things, Rorschach tests, anatomy designs, close-ups of a blood vessel. This is your brain. This is your brain if you were a schizophrenic heroin addict. Look at those gaps in the temporal lobe!

Serial killers, violence, hallucinations- and comedy sketches. Most of them actively seeking out insanity by doing things like almost overdosing, or forcing themselves to stay awake for days on end.

Ax made friends with Carnival Freaks instantly. He had a story to top all Joker stories- he'd met Mr. Prince-of-Chaos, I'm-gonna-blow-up-a-hospital-and-maybe-some-ferries, Mr. Look-at-my-pretty-smile.

Nails always brought it up first. Favoured Freak lines against the opposition were usually explosive choruses of "You don't get it! And you'll _never_ understand!" and all Nails had to do was turn it around and say; "Ax met him, right?"

Ax hated being put in the spotlight. Nails was all about spotlight, what with the tattoos and the Mohawk and the occasional public nudity, so he thought he was doing Ax a favour.

There was no turning back after he mentioned it. All the Freaks would swarm him, hissing; "Tell us, tell us, what did Auntie Joker say?"

Ax always thought it was the buildup that was more exciting than actually bumping into the Joker- which is literally all he did, running straight into the guy while trying to slip away from a hospital with a broken arm.

What had happened was, the Beltway was protected not by Batman but by the particularly corrupt and low-budgeted GCPD 9th precinct. 9th precinct had long ago identified Ax and crew as a gang after a couple of yuppies threw garbage at Chelsea, screaming shit about punks. Stereo had tried to drag the two guys around the corner to only kick the shit out of _them_, but then Packrat got thrown through the club window and suddenly there was a barfight.

Long story short, 9th precinct did not like them. Stereo always told him not to, but Ax liked to be alone sometimes. He could walk for hours without getting anywhere. And he drank, occasionally to the point of a blackout on streetcorners or in dumpsters, again, alone, so he was the easiest target to pick out.

Another long story short, a patrol car with the 9th pct decal on the bumper pulled up one day after the guys inside had had a bad night, handcuffed a completely sober Ax, saying something vague about prostitution, drove him to a construction site and kicked him until they felt better.

He had a broken arm, lots of cuts and some internal bleeding. The doctors at the hospital he crawled to hinted that the bleeding might have been from all the drinking, smoking and general bodily harm he did to himself, and had nothing to do with the noble boys in blue. Shame, shame.

Ax had no money, and if he gave them his name it would be a quick ticket back to New York where his mother, homophobic stepfather and way too much therapy were waiting. Obviously, he had to sneak out.

Cue Mr. Reeves attempt to identify the Batman. When the Joker went on live teevee to order the death sentence, doctors all through Gotham General literally screamed like little girls. Ax was thrown out of his cot so a woman in labour could have it- not that he was too heartbroken over his change of placement. He could walk, she couldn't. He understood the sentiment. The hospital was a mess during the bomb threat. After getting used to the calm and quiet of the hospital, walking outside his room after the scare was straight surreal. He wondered for a second if the bomb had actually gone off already. There were so many nurses and doctors and flailing patients and thrown papers everywhere that slipping to the nurses' station to grab his clothes was mind-numbingly easy.

It took him a long time to get dressed with his arm in a cast. When he got out, the only people left were the ones having nervous breakdown and the patients strapped to life support and iron lungs.

The halls were mostly empty. Cops were going room to room making sure everyone was out.

His only shot was to just put his head down, run, and pray. So he did just that.

He got three steps before he hit something. A person, bodyheat and pain and there was a grunt as somebody dropped to the floor. Ax's first thought was that it was his worst nightmare- he'd hit a cop.

The uniform was a politically incorrect nurses' skirt. Nurses didn't wear skirts anymore- he'd asked one why, and they said it was demeaning. Orange hair sticking out in a way no nurse would ever do because nobody wanted wayward strands in someones' open wounds.

It was not a womans' hand that shot out to twist his cast back against his chest, leaving fingerprint whorls smearing black and white facepaint over the plaster. Something crunched. Fortunately, it was just a solid piece of the bandages, but the sound and pain sent Ax's thought processes into panicked spirals.

The Joker dragged Ax by his broken arm into an empty room, closing the door and slamming him against a wall. A knife clicked between his teeth. He felt sharp, smooth, well-kept edges press against the outside of his lips. Instinct told him to swallow. His tongue licked against the knife, tasting steel.

The only thing he could think was _it's just not my week_…

"Scream and you swallow your tongue," The Joker commanded. His voice was deep and heavy in his chest.

A pause, with Ax's broken arm still being crunched out of alignment against his ribcage, head forced against a diagram of the inside of a blood vessel.

The Joker was more than a little close. He licked his lips and smeared red in the shape of the wake of his saliva, spreading the thick red gunk deep into the dry wrinkles in his lips. He smelled like a ham sandwich. All Ax could think of was how far away breakfast in the hospital cot had been

_Am I in shock_?

"N-_ice_," The Joker said in that sliding tone of sarcasm that had been warning Ax for years to get ready for the gay jokes. The Joker shifted his weight, pressed Ax's jaw closed with a thumb to the gap in his jawline, right over his trachea. He poked Ax's forehead hard with the knife. "Y'know, I read in this stupid psychology book that if you pluck and wax too much, it's a sign of, y'know…"

Ax knew this one. He'd heard it from Ray, the ex-Arkham doctor who discovered morals and took a new job driving cabs. He waited for the Joker to find the word.

"…masochism,"

He hadn't plucked them in days. The problem with having naturally thick black hair was that if you didn't like a certain patch of it, that patch would grow back like hellfire if left alone too long.

The knife slipped back between Ax's teeth, the point driving hard into the inside of his cheek.

"Look at me," The Joker commanded, like there was anything else Ax could look at with theatre paint and yellow teeth inches from his face.

Ax went from the teeth, smelling like a Subway's chain, to the green eyes drowning in black paint. They studied him back.

"Wanna know how I got these scars?'

"No," Ax spat around a mouthful of steel. "Fug aff,"

A pause. The knife was wrenched out of his mouth, slitting the sensitive fabrics inside and spreading copper against his teeth.

"Sorry, I couldn't hear that with a knife in your tonsils. You just said _what_?" The Joker snapped.

"I said fuck off," Ax spat.

If you were going down no matter what, it better not be on your knees.

The Joker threw his head back and laugh. Ax couldn't stop himself from taking the opportunity to see if there was any evidence of that ham sandwich stuck in his gums.

The Joker jabbed the knife back into Ax's forehead and twisted against the stunted little black hairs shoving their way through his skin. "_You_, kid, have got some chutzpah,"

He smiled. He actually looked happy. "Normally, I'd kill you anyways. But I'm in a good mood, and I'm on a schedule. I don't have time to clean up any extra messes, so I want you to leave the back way. There's all these media cameras in the front, y'know, and nobody wants your pretty little face all over the evening news. Y'know?"

_Really? It's just like that_?

Wait- Ax was nowhere near this stupid. Even if this wasn't the Joker, the guy with the most news programs dedicated to him in Gotham, you never took a homicidal maniac's word for granted. Ever. First off, that's how you died in scary movies. Second off, that's how you died in real life.

The Joker moved back, held his hands up, smiled at him. "Hurry up, kid. I might not be this busy in the next five minutes,"

Well, he didn't have much of a choice either way. Ax bolted. His arm and the cuts in his stomach throbbed, but he ignored that.

The back exit lead to a parking lot with a meat truck blocking the entrance and a high chain-link fence. Men in clown masks lounged conspicuously in the cab. Not even adrenaline would get Ax over that with a broken arm, and he had no idea how long it would take before the Joker pressed the detonator button. There was also the highly likely probability that those men had been told to shoot anything on sight.

But there were always other options. Gotham General was a big place, and architects were always neurotic about fires or, let's say, bombs.

And there it was, down two other hallways as far away from the one the Joker was in as possible. Just what he was looking for. A fire escape.

The alarm was encased in an iron box, so he couldn't disconnect the wires the way Stereo had shown him how to do. Instead, he told himself that everybody who might want to shoot him was far too busy either trying to blow the hospital up or trying to stop the hospital from blowing up to pay attention to little old him. The door opened, but reluctantly, forcing him to push and shove with all his weight before finally allowing enough space to run out.

Something cracked and the sirens over the door let loose loud enough to split his skull. He could almost see all the bad people who could kill him hearing the sound and covering the distance he'd made between them in under ten seconds.

And the Joker had his detonator, everyone else had their guns, the hospital was screaming at him as loud as it could and all Ax had was a broken arm and a bleeding stomach.

Later, he would remember- vaguely- that he ran all the way from Gotham general, approximately sixty city blocks, down to the Beltway. The memory wasn't much past a jumble of stores and startled people and the one time he ran directly into a streetlight. His memory split itself at that point- pre-streetlight and post-streetlight. When he reached the safe, familiar, friendly Beltway he purposefully crawled into a dumpster and fainted. Some small part of him stated very solidly that people passed out in dumpsters were not normally bothered by passerbys, and that part was making more sense than the rest of his head, so he decided to listen to it.

Packrat was the one who found him. He saw one of Ax's boots stuck out of the dumpster after a week and a half of Ax being missing, and went over hoping the rest of him- or, at least, part of his foot- would be in the dumpster.

Him and Stereo immediately called Nails, then gave Ax most of a bottle of vodka. Ax spent a week convalescing on Nails' couch, watching movies and drinking.

Not that he had anything to worry about.

After all, the Joker was locked up.


End file.
